


Sent

by themantlingdark



Series: Sent [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, idiots to lovers, set after the tv series, they're still idiots tho lbr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 21:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20607503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themantlingdark/pseuds/themantlingdark
Summary: Wine. A picnic. Kisses. Stargazing. Two soft fools and all their feelings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist: [ Tracks 1-14 are the show, 15-31 are the fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLrf_IgOrgz_b1w84xmREN6Yzq46PXiUgK)

Crowley locked his phone in the safe at six AM.

He went back intending to take it out again no less than seven times by eight AM, but came away from each attempt empty handed--and unable to shake the feeling that Lisa Gherardini was silently laughing at him. 

At noon he stared down at the shadows on the sidewalks--longer now that the sun was low with autumn, but as short as they would get that day--and toyed with the idea of speeding up time. 

Trouble was, time’s pace had been odd enough on its own. For its first two decades, it had barely budged. And then, unobserved, it had fledged, and each year after had flown faster than the one before. 

Until Elizabeth’s time. 

Then Shakespeare had started penning plays that left Aziraphale visibly giddy. Unguarded. By the angel’s standards, anyway. 

Crowley had never seen anything like it. He began living for it. He put a brilliant woman and a beautiful young man in Shakespeare’s path and set the sonnets spinning. The resulting words had turned Aziraphale radiant, the sight of which had rendered Crowley something much like drunk, and time’s flow had turned to treacle. 

The moments between their meetings had trod past with leaden feet. Crowley had carefully orchestrated ever more run-ins with his angel, artfully arranged with just enough of the illusion of chaos that they all seemed serendipitous. And, whenever they were together, fickle time flew.

He had expected the tiff over the holy water in 1862 to speed things up again by making him miss the angel less. Instead, he’d played arguments and words unspoken over in his head so relentlessly that he’d had to sleep himself sane for half a century. Or try to, anyway. 

In 1941 he thought he’d finally clinched it all by saving that perfect idiot’s books and backside--which had come with the delicious bonus of bombing a church, about which desecration the angel hadn’t batted an eye, which made it doubly delicious. 

And then nothing until 1967, which had been worse than nothing and had come with the salt-in-the-wound of Aziraphale looking lovelier than ever. His curls had flowed toward his face in lines as quick and crisp as a pastel sketch, all pointing to that extravagant nose. A feature as impossible as the angel it was perched on. Crowley had seen Virginie Gautreau at her peak in the salons of Paris and had wondered what all the fuss was about. Aziraphale’s profile was the one that warranted portraits. It was a far more striking face. Lit by a shock of white hair, set with polychrome eyes, and holding a smile that seemed to lift not only the angel’s features but the very air around him. All else paled beside.

Contrary to the angel’s assumption, disaster had never been further from Crowley’s mind. On finding Aziraphale in his car, there had been, for all of six seconds, a soaring joy in his breast unrivaled by anything else he’d known. God’s love could get stuffed. This was bigger. Better. And so much more solid than hope. It brought the first full sense of relief he’d felt since his fall. No more doubting and wondering. He’d thought they were finally on the same page. Aziraphale was there like an apple waiting to be picked. Crowley had wanted to take him by the cheeks and kiss him to pieces. Had pictured the windows steaming up, blurring the neon lights into candy floss haze. Had dreamt up several thousand other lovely things for them to do once they’d made it to a bedroom.

And then that bloody tartan thermos had appeared, and Aziraphale had given the impression that he thought Crowley hoped to take him home and thank him for his trouble with a quick fuck before he downed the holy water in one go and erased himself. 

Crowley had wanted to sleep with him, but not for the holy water. For six thousand years. For every ridiculous second they’d spent together. For the color it would put in Aziraphale’s cheeks. For the sounds he would make and the fun it would be. For the sight of his skin after so many centuries. 

The angel was always so buttoned up. Jacket, waistcoat, shirt--and probably an undershirt as well, if the rest was anything to go on--tie, trousers, and sometimes gloves to boot. 

Crowley hadn’t seen the hollow at the base of his best friend’s throat since 41 A.D. The skin there was so fine it shone. So thin it rippled with the heartbeat behind it. It had the sturdy name of suprasternal notch--or fossa jugularis sternalis, which had bloodier connotations that Crowley rejected in connection with Aziraphale’s neck. Notch was reassuring. Handy. Associated with belts, bedposts, and bowstrings, which, to Crowley’s increasingly addled brain, lent the word an air of cupid, over whom his thoughts leapt in favor of Eros. Aziraphale had a neck like a lion’s. Perfect for holding the angel’s head up over his books for hours--or centuries--on end. Plenty of surface to cover with love-bites and kisses. 

Crowley had managed to resist the urge to sneak a peek at the rest of his friend during their swap--hadn’t even removed the jacket to let his arms breathe. It had been suffocating.

The angel kept that ancient jacket impeccable. Like he was keeping score on himself. He hadn’t resorted to any miracles to render it immaculate--until the paintball, anyway, and that was a technicality. He’d managed it with good behavior. For centuries. A cautiousness that must have required constant attention. One plate forever spinning in the air, winding him up more tightly with every rotation. Crowley wanted to knock it down. Untie, unbutton, unwind, and rend it all.

But a mere fifty years ago that had been too fast, even after six millennia. 

If left Crowley feeling like he’d missed something. Perhaps it was another of the many curses of being immortal; even a span of six million years was only on par with a blue tit’s piss in the sea when it came to eternity. 

So much had happened in the interim, however, that he couldn’t quite believe the variables were the same. He and Aziraphale were on their own side now. Not going behind the backs of archangels and princes of hell. They’d dined at the Ritz because they’d wanted to, not because it was thinly excused by their amateur professional arrangement.

They still hadn’t had that picnic though. 

There wasn’t time left in the day to plan one now. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner. And _ dinner _ was somewhat synonymous with _ date,_ which made it more likely to spook Aziraphale, the thought of which spooked Crowley, as it meant the angel might run off someplace where anything could happen to him. You couldn’t be too careful in a universe where gits like Gabriel and Beelzebub were allowed to exist. And God could probably go on that roster as well. 

Crowley’s stomach did something ugly at the image of his angel, nose in a book, oblivious to the whole rotten host around him. 

He wandered back to the sofa to stretch out and watch the sunlight snail its way up the eastern wall.

By three PM, he was convinced She had slowed time’s passage Herself just to torment him. He needed a distraction. Or, failing that, an ally. 

Music had always helped him pass the minutes. 

In 1995 he’d spent three weeks listening to Chris Isaak’s _ Forever Blue _ on a loop. Seven hundred and sixty spins of swooning romantic catastrophe. He was overdue to revisit it. It seemed wise to prepare his heart for the worst. To put himself through the paces of unrequited love on the excellent chance he’d be spending eternity in it.

Seven o’clock was still early enough to have a whiff of dinner to it, but Crowley couldn’t stay in his flat another second. Every plant was vibrating, mistaking his unease for displeasure with them, and the rustling of their leaves was fraying nerves that were already in tatters.

The chill of the autumn air and the dim purple of twilight offered some comfort, slowing his pulse and soothing his eyes. The plush seats and purr of the Bentley offered still more, until, after letting him rest in smooth silence for two full blocks, its stereo spat _ Crazy Little Thing Called Love _ at him and he nearly swerved into a bus.

“Yes, I’m working on it, thank you!” Crowley yelped, straightening the wheel amid a chorus of honking motorists. “Meanwhile, try not to get me discorporated, yeah? Tosser.” 

He did his best not to sound too fond, but the car wasn’t fooled.

What was meant to be a long, deliciously mindless drive was instead a beeline to the bookshop. Crowley’s feet were on the sidewalk at the foot of the front step while his plans were still sailing down the motorway.

He was well-versed in miracles, but life still felt impossible. Reality seemed a dream from which he was terrified to wake. There was no lingering breath of smoke. No blackened stone or broken glass. No dead or discorporated best friend. Everything was back in one piece. 

Two pieces. 

Here was Aziraphale’s world, with the sign flipped to “closed” and the lights on within, same as ever. And Crowley’s home was very solidly elsewhere. This arrangement was what Adam, who did not know his ass from any number of holes in the ground, thought correct. Crowley wanted to shake the boy’s shoulders and ask why he hadn’t just plopped an extra story on the bookshop and slid his flat in there. That way, any time Crowley came or went, he’d have an excuse to pop in on Aziraphale. He could keep an ear cocked to make sure his angel was safe. But he was splitting hairs. The boy had done beyond well. 

“Back from the stars already, are you?”

Crowley didn’t recognize the man who was doing the asking.

“Sorry, and who the hell are you?”

“Innocent bystander from your breakup.”

“My break- _ Oh,_ _right._” Crowley nodded and went back to looking in the window, but the man was still waiting for his answer. If nothing else, replying would kill some more of the dinner hour. “Could hardly go without him. He’s my best friend.”

This earned him something between a scoff and a groan from the stranger. When he looked, he found a doubtful glare waiting for him beneath a cocked eyebrow.

“'_Friend'?_”

“Yes.” Crowley had to pull his lips between his teeth to keep the word from dissolving into a hiss. “Look, he’s...” Crowley rejected _ in danger, out of my sphere, from a profoundly belligerent plane of existence,_ and a slew of other equally accurate and unspeakable explanations. “He’s new to this. So am I. We’ve had to make it all up as we go."

“Big life-changes?”

“Massive.”

“Family not supportive?”

Crowley barked a laugh. “You could say that. Mine’s downright demonic. And his is even worse.”

“Chuck them.”

“Yeah, I think we’ve just done that bit.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The _ problem,_” Crowley said, as if those seven letters could ever render the thing as small and simple as the word itself, “is that I might love him more than he does me.” Crowley winced on saying it. The sentence seemed to lessen his friend. Aziraphale’s love was no little thing. It was the biggest thing in Crowley’s life. “Not _ more,_ just differently,” he amended. “I want... everything. Sounds greedy saying it. But I can live without more. I’m not unhappy. Without _ this,_” he spread his hands toward the bookshop, “I’m done for.”

“Don’t want to rock the boat.”

“Right.”

“Look, if he’s worth it-”

“Oi, watch who you’re iffing. He’s worth it, all right?”

“All right,” the man agreed, calmly waving off the finger that was aimed at his face. “If that’s true, then you can trust him.”

“’Course I can, he’s an angel. Better than. He’s a good man.”

“Then just ask him about it. Honestly, what are you waiting for?”

Crowley gaped at him for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders at himself. “Hell to freeze over?” he offered. 

The man shook his head, rolled his eyes, and said, “Well, good luck to you,” adding, “And God help your friend,” under his breath as he left.

It was still only a quarter to eight, but it would have to do. 

Three rings of the phone on the angel’s end, which Crowley fancied he could just hear through the glass of the front door.

“Good evening, I’m afraid we’ve already clo-”

“Hullo Angel.” 

“Crowley, how are you?”

Beneath the relief and pleasure, Aziraphale’s smile was audible to Crowley and it drew his own lips up into the same expression. He found it difficult to rein them together again for speech. 

“Oh, tickety-boo, as they say.”

“Do they?”

“Well, one of them.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s voice lowered to something like a croak. Crowley pictured his friend’s lips pursing as a miffed huff of breath that was only for show ghosted across the mouthpiece of the phone.

“Anything on?” Crowley asked, putting a soft bounce in his voice that spoke of spare time, safety, and warm, unhurried curiosity.

“No, no. Perfect timing, in fact. I’ve just set down my book.”

“Right. Well then. I, um... was just wondering… Look, I know it’s a bit late, but can I take you out for coffee or something? Dessert? Cocoa? Glass of wine?”

“Wine would be lovely. Shall I meet you somewhere?”

“Nah, I’m just outside. Pop down whenever you like.”

Aziraphale was still buttoning his coat when Crowley spotted him doing a brisk walk to the door.

“Evening, angel.”

“Evening,” Aziraphale nodded, then frowned. “Have you really been all right?”

“Yes, I’ve said so. Why? Do I look off?” Crowley reached to check his hair and licked nonexistent crumbs from the corners of his mouth.

“You’re a bit creased. Just here.” Aziraphale pointed to the space between his own eyebrows.

“Am I?” Crowley ducked to look at himself in the Bentley’s window before he opened its door for Aziraphale. The number eleven was written above his nose. “Well, it’s been a rough week. Suppose I’m still not accustomed to being safe.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded. “It does feel a bit like I’ve left the hob on all the time. We’ll get used to it.”

Crowley took them to the bar with the kind waiter who’d kept him full of Scotch when Aziraphale was discorporated. The same young man was working and hurried over to them as soon as they’d been seated.

“Was hoping I’d see you again.”

“Oh?” Crowley asked, catching the ascent of Aziraphale’s eyebrows on hearing the waiter’s words.

“You, um,” the man reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of gold pieces struck with horses and the cruel heads of emperors, “overpaid the other day. By quite a lot, I suspect. The bills you left more than covered it. I didn’t even know what to do with these.”

Crowley sagged back in his seat with a sigh and stretched his legs.

“I was afraid you were going to say I’d dined and dashed and was persona non grata. I know I made a scene. Keep it. And thanks for putting up with me.”

The waiter still looked worried. He’d have a number eleven on his brow as deep as Crowley’s if he kept at it.

“The gold is worth more, but if you’d rather have cash, I can change it for you,” Aziraphale offered.

“Can’t put these in an ATM,” the man said, running his thumb over them one last time in a rueful farewell.

Aziraphale passed his hand over the offered palm. When it cleared, there was a neat stack of cash where the coins had been. Crowley grinned at the frivolous miracle that was being fobbed off as sleight of hand. The wide-eyed young man said his thanks and took their order.

“What did you do with the gold, angel?”

“It’s back in his pocket,” Aziraphale replied, going a bit wide-eyed himself, suddenly worried that Crowley might have wanted it.

“Thank you,” Crowley smiled, and watched the angel’s cheeks redden and his gaze dip.

“My pleasure.”

Crowley had ordered them a 2013 LVE Cabernet Sauvignon, wanting its warm hints of oak and coffee to usher their palates into the autumn weather. It was also meant to stain their mouths as they drank and give them a thrill of pink every time their eyes dipped to each other’s lips.

“What were you reading?” Crowley asked.

“When?”

“Before I picked you up.”

“Oh, _Moby Dick._ I’d been remembering our conversation about whales.” 

“Which one’s that?” Crowley wrinkled his nose, wondering if this was something he’d said the last time he was sitting here.

“The one a little while ago, where you were nudging me the right direction. About us being a neutralizing influence on the Antichrist. How all the whales, with their big brains, would be turning into-”

“Bouillabaisse! Yes, if the seas boiled. Worst cottonmouth I’ve ever managed, that.”

“Yes, it was for me as well,” Aziraphale agreed, pulling his lips into a tiny moue at the memory. “Anyway. Reminded me to read it.”

“And how was it?”

“Oh, marvelous. And, unfortunately, as relevant as ever. But there was a bit more in the back. My copy has a few of the author’s letters printed afterward.”

“Melville’s?”

“Yes, to Hawthorne.”

“As in _ Nathaniel?_”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale gave a slow nod and smiled down into another sip of his wine.

“Well, don’t be a tease, angel. Throw me a few morsels, if you can remember any.”

Crowley saw Aziraphale’s gaze turn inward. Watched those mercurial eyes go dark. 

Aziraphale’s irises weren’t quite blue. Which meant they were green, which was good. Halfway to gold. Blue was boring. A nothing of a color as far as eyes--and Crowleys--were concerned. Blue eyes were the absence of pigment. With the darkness of the inner eye behind them, the thin tissues of their stroma scattered light the same way skies did. The color was an illusion. But green eyes meant pheomelanin. Substance. That pigment was responsible for red hair, freckles, and eyes that ranged from aqua to amber. They were rare colors, Crowley’s colors, and had accumulated superstitions accordingly. The fiery hues conjured whispers of witchcraft, passion, vampirism, soullessness, and origins in Atlantis.

They were the first detail Crowley had noticed about the angel. Aziraphale’s eyes were a dialed-down version of his own. He’d followed them into the first cordial conversation he’d had since his fall and had received the feathery umbrella for the kicker. Crowley had spent centuries trying to brush it off to spare his heart. Had excused it all as reflex. As instinct. As mere good manners. Argued that Aziraphale was simply made that way. God’s love incarnate--barring the odd discorporation. A true angel probably couldn’t help but be kind. There was nothing to read into his actions. 

But Crowley had been an Angel once too, and he knew better than anyone that everyone--God included--was capable of anything. _ Willing _ was a different story. But he hadn’t trusted his luck enough to let himself believe it back then. Having lost everything, he was wary of wanting more to lose. 

He hated himself for his lack of faith in Aziraphale now. It felt like theft. Aziraphale had built that kindness brick by brick, with no shortage of worry, and Crowley had spent centuries disassembling it with the claim it was congenital. Like the idiots who said that aliens had plopped the pyramids down in Giza. Wonders like that were only ever the product of oceans of blood, doubt, tears, and terror.

He was watching Aziraphale’s lips when they finally parted. So unlike his own. Fuller, especially on top, and wildly expressive.

“He said so many lovely things,” Aziraphale murmured. “They were quite long letters, even in their own day.” 

“S_uch as,_” Crowley urged, and saw Aziraphale draw a deep breath.

“‘I keep the word "Welcome" all the time in my mouth, so as to be ready on the instant when you cross the threshold,’” Aziraphale bit his lower lip for a split-second after he’d said it. “That one feels as if it should be commonplace, don’t you think?” 

“I do,” Crowley nodded, smiling already, floating straight into his friend’s gaze, as deep in the grip of whatever this was as he’d always been.

“And then there was another. ‘Whence come you, Hawthorne? By what right do you drink from my flagon of life? And when I put it to my lips -- lo, they are yours and not mine. I feel that the Godhead is broken up like the bread at the Supper, and that we are the pieces.’ And there was more to that effect,” Aziraphale remembered, narrowing his eyes to squint at his own mind, “‘... your heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours, and both in God's.’ And then only a little bit later in that same note there was a line that felt like a loop closing up on me: ‘Leviathan is not the biggest fish; -- I have heard of Krakens.’”

“Not really.”

“Yes, I laughed aloud.” 

Aziraphale was grinning now and going faintly pink with the wine and the words. 

Crowley felt warm and nearly weightless and was smiling back at his friend with such naked affection the waiter slowed his steps on his way to their table to keep from puncturing the bubble they had built.

“Shall we walk?” Crowley asked, offering his arm as they stepped out onto the pavement. “I’ve half a bottle of wine in me and I’d rather not expunge it, but I will do if I’ll be driving you.”

“Do us both good,” Aziraphale said, taking Crowley’s arm and steering them to the nearest park for a lazy, meandering stroll that brought more talk of whales and writers and the tightening of Aziraphale’s hand on the inside of Crowley’s elbow in time with all their laughter.

On the drive back Crowley kept his left hand loose on the wheel, ready to punch the stereo in the teeth if the car showed any cheek. He stared ahead unbelieving, certain he was being lulled into a false sense of security, when the Prélude from Cello Suite No. 1 began to play without an ounce of Queen in it.

“Oh, I love this piece,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Even the atheists believe in Bach.”

“And who could blame them.”

All too soon, it came time to turn. The words “Where to, angel?” were on the tip of Crowley’s tongue, but he bit them back. The assumption that Aziraphale wanted to return to the bookshop might cost them a night in bed, but the chance that the question might cause the angel to balk and utter another “You go too fast for me, Crowley” was not one worth taking. The original was still ringing in Crowley’s ears more than fifty years on. 

“Half a mo,” Crowley said, as he stopped at the curb, then hopped hips-first out of the car and hurried around to open the door for the angel.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Thank you for joining me. Short notice and all that.”

Crowley listened to the clicks of the lock and caught the vanillic scent of old paper on the air as the door swung open.

“Crowley?” 

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale turned on the step, frowning a bit and fidgeting with his ring.

“Do mind how you go. If you see anything... _odd... _even if it seems silly, please tell me. Can’t be too careful.”

“Right. And likewise, you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Goodnight, angel.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

The last two words left Crowley feeling like a glass of champagne. His whole middle had gone fizzy and golden. He wanted Aziraphale to set his lips to his mouth and drink him. 

It took him over a minute to remember he had arms and let himself into the car. 

After another minute, he managed to start the engine and put it in drive. 

“Right. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

He was back where he started. If he’d ever even left. It was impossible to tell. He’d said none of what he’d meant to say.

Hope sat on one shoulder, assuring him that everything the angel had said was something that reminded him of them. That they were two halves. That the swap of their bodies had meant as much to Aziraphale as it had to him. That they’d made shields of themselves for each other. Saved each other. That they needed each other. That it was no coincidence the angel had been reading those love letters. Memorizing them. Quoting them. There was no denying he’d been thinking of their past conversations.

Caution sat on his other shoulder and said the angel was thinking about whales, and you asked him to quote the bloody letters, you pillock. And who else was he going to talk to? There was one viable companion for him on Earth. It was a demon or eternity alone.

Hope pointed out that any other angel would have opted for the latter. 

Caution couldn’t deny that.

If nothing else, “my dear” was new and lovely. Crowley clung to it.


	2. Chapter 2

Sleep never quite came to him, but Crowley was supine on his bed in a state of open-eyed oblivion when his mobile rang at nine the next morning.

“G’morning, angel. Everything all right?”

“Good morning. Yes, quite, thank you. Anything out of the ordinary on your end?”

“No, right as rain,” Crowley said, and then looked out the window and sighed, “which it is doing.” Not the sort of weather meant for picnicking.

“Yes, the perfect excuse for staying in with a book. Tomorrow brings walking-weather, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Does it?”

“Well, allegedly,” the angel conceded. “The meteorologists have nothing on Agnes Nutter.”

“To say the least,” Crowley agreed. “But, if they are right--or not _ too _ wrong, anyway--fancy a picnic in the countryside tomorrow?”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always wanted one.”

“Then I’ll pick you up at eleven.”

Crowley sent his friend back to his books and, after consulting the internet, set out in the pouring rain to assemble his first picnic.

It seemed that cold, simple things were called for, which was welcome news as hot food would cool off and Crowley had minimal skills in the kitchen but still wanted to make their lunch himself. He would pick up coffee, fresh croissants, and a slice of something sweet in the morning on his way to Aziraphale’s. Meanwhile, he bought apples. All he had to do was wash them and they’d be ready to go. Plus Aziraphale would think they were funny while pretending to disapprove of the joke. Half his shopping basket was quickly monopolized by an obscene--and probably still inadequate--quantity of grapes. He grabbed cheese, crackers, honey, preserves, and a pretty wooden board to put them on, then picked up a bottle of champagne and, finally, spun on his heel to go back for a second bottle of champagne. 

When those were all tucked away in his refrigerator, he realized he needed a hamper to put them in. He wondered if they still made hampers. It was a pity he’d given his last one away with the Antichrist. He should have turned the baby out and kept the basket. 

Cups, plates, napkins, knives and forks, he had. Blankets and pillows were another story.

A thousand stories, as it turned out, and at least as many shops that stocked them. There were so many patterns and fabrics. Stripes, plaids, polka-dots, and florals. Knits, flannels, fleeces, and waffles. There were water-resistant atrocities that smelled like tires and were unpleasant to the touch and there were weightless cashmeres he wanted to curl up in for naps that lasted centuries on end. 

He found a sturdy wool blanket in a tiny herringbone pattern for them to lie on and was about to pick up two knit throws and a pair of square toss pillows when he saw one very wide pillow, which, if he and Aziraphale were inclined to lie down, they would be obliged to share. This caused Crowley to reassess. He asked the clerk if there were any cashmere blankets big enough to cover two men without one or the other of them peeking out at the edges. She took him to the proper bedding section where he found something that fit the bill. It was meant for a queen bed, which was what he had at home, and it came in a tan and oatmeal tartan, which set Crowley laughing so hard he could only dip his head in thanks before he made his way to the counter.

Sleep once again proved elusive, so he took the new blanket for a test drive to pass the time. Soft and warm, but not itchy or stiff. Bright, even in the darkness of his bedroom. If they used it tomorrow, he would put it back on his bed afterward and it would be the closest the angel had come to being in it. 

He hadn’t slept when he’d stayed the night. They’d practiced their swap with their smallest toes to start, wanting to make it inconspicuous in case it injured or disfigured them. When they had worked their way up to their scalps without incident, Crowley asked if he could miracle Aziraphale a set of pajamas. The angel had declined.

“Could be a long day tomorrow,” Crowley had warned. “They do love to drag things out. They’ll probably find a way to cram some paperwork into the process.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I’ve never slept before. Don’t want to try it now and risk throwing myself off somehow.” 

Crowley had done his best to keep the shock and disappointment off his face and only said, “Well, if you change your mind, help yourself to the empty half of the bed.”

Afterward, he’d lain awake all night listening for footsteps that hadn’t come. 

  
  
  
  


The bakery that had the best croissants also had a glass case full of dainties that Crowley had never had cause to try. One of them was so lovely he could only stare. Half a dozen square sheets of filo had been loosely pressed into a miniature tart pan, filled with crushed sugared nuts, topped with half a honey-drenched fig, and baked golden. The garnish was a shard of honey in the comb, looking like a cross between molten gold and shattered crystal.

“May I help you?” 

He hadn’t even heard the clerk coming and wasn’t sure how long--or how awkwardly--he’d been ogling.

“Is this thing as good as it looks?” Crowley dipped his head at the dessert.

“Baklava is always better than it looks.”

“Right. I’ll take it.”

Drinks, dining at the Ritz, Armageddon, and now a picnic. It didn’t make a whit of difference: Aziraphale was wearing the same damn thing. Crowley had been thinking an Aran sweater would fit the bill, in part because his fingers longed to play over the soft cable patterns while the knit was stretched across his best friend’s breast, and because it would be warm for the cooler weather. It would also move nicely with Aziraphale’s limbs if he was inclined to stretch out on the blanket for a rest after lunch. 

“I brought some music for the drive,” Aziraphale said, then slid a disc into the player and watched out of the corner of his eye as Crowley’s jaw gradually fell.

“Who’s this?” 

“Hasse.”

“Yes, I know _ that,_ thank you. I mean the singer. And what’s that accent? What’s that _ voice?_ Is he one of yours?”

“He’s one of _ ours,_” Aziraphale reminded. “Earth’s, I mean. Eden’s, I like to think. Jakub Józef Orliński. Countertenor. Divine, isn’t he? Or was that all blasphemy?”

“Aaaah, he’s Polish. That’s what’s got me so nervous.”

“What? Why?”

“That bloody doomed uprising.” Crowley shook his head and frowned. “Warsaw, back in ’44. Poland lost half a dozen poets just like that”, he snapped his fingers and Aziraphale flinched. “Stanisław Pigoń said they were ‘destined to shoot at the enemy with diamonds.’ How safe is this Orliński bloke?” 

“Well, he _ is _ from Warsaw, but he’s a singer, not a soldier.” 

“Let him stay one.”

“You should see him sing.”

Crowley only half tried to tamp down his smile, and made sure to turn his head so that his friend could see the failure.

“Music is for the ears, angel.”

“Right. Which is why you never needed to see Queen.”

“Oh, shut it,” Crowley said, or tried to say, but it came out all wispy because he was laughing. “All right, I’ll bite. Why should I see him?” 

“Pull over and look him up on your mobile. Cappella dell’Ospedale della Pietà. ‘Sento in seno.’”

“‘A rain of tears.’ Surely that bodes well,” Crowley muttered, but he stopped the car on the shoulder anyway. He could feel Aziraphale’s gaze on his face as he looked at the screen. “Bloody hell,” Crowley breathed. “She was in rare form when She made him.”

“Mmm. No cutting corners that day, it would seem.”

“It’s not fair. That’s... He’s…”

“He’s _ what?_” Aziraphale asked, all feigned innocence, and Crowley wanted to pinch him. And possibly bite him a little. In a nice way. On principle.

“Delicious,” Crowley pronounced.

“Making you peckish?”

“I believe ‘thirsty’ is the word for it these days.”

“Ah, that’s even better.” 

“Lewder, you mean.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale gave one pseudo-solemn nod and they both giggled.

“Though I could just unhinge my jaw and swallow him whole,” Crowley mused. “Might do. Look at him.” 

“Oh, I have.” 

Crowley heard the base in the angel’s voice again, like the last key on a piano, and felt his skin pull tight into gooseflesh at the sound.

“You’re blushing, angel.”

“Well, one of us probably should be.”

“It suits you.” At this, Aziraphale’s complexion ventured into fuchsia’s territory. “That rouge you wore in 1793 was-”

“Rouge! Crowley! How could you sug- I can’t believe you would- I did nothing of the sort.” 

“You did _ something,_” Crowley said, and saw the angel’s lower lip pull inward in playful defeat.

“I pinched my cheeks.”

“You what?”

“Oh, just drive the car, will you? Honestly. At this rate we’ll be eating in the dark.”

Crowley made sounds of delighted disbelief at the countertenor’s vocal heroics until the album was over. Aziraphale’s breath hitched at every one of them.

“Why were you in France in 1793?” the angel asked.

“You know why.” 

  
  


Not far past Tadfield, Crowley found a hill overlooking a field where all the grass had been clipped low by the soft lips of cows. Autumn color was singing from every copse and hedgerow, but few of the leaves had fallen, so there would still be plenty left on the branches to shield them from wind and sun. 

Crowley left his eyeglasses on the dash and grabbed the basket while Aziraphale chose a dappled spot at the edge of an oak’s shade and laid out the pillows and blankets.

Crowley was of the opinion that those who associated spring with romance were life’s freshers. Flowers rotted fast, and the heart of their scent often came from indole, which also lent its perfume to excrement. Flies flocked to blossoms hoping to find shit. The chill of autumn slowed decay and the air remained fresh despite everything’s dying. Apples, chimneys, and crispy leaves put a tart, toasted scent on the breeze instead of the heavy, fetid breath of summer. The droopy petals of flowers had long faded and dropped. Fall’s blooms were the feathers of birds, as rare and bright as fairies, slipping through the woods on their way to warm places. 

Autumn had love’s urgency. There was no promise of summer unfolding. There were no more holidays at the beach to piss away with paperbacks and peeling sunburns. The seasons of warmth and plenty were spent. If you wanted to pass the dark days safe and warm with someone you loved, you had to find them now. 

“So you’ve never slept,” Crowley said, pouring their first round of drinks and adding, “Cheers,” as he handed the angel his flute.

“Cheers. No. I was afraid to push it,” Aziraphale admitted. “All the eating, reading, and drinking seemed bad enough. Not to mention all the lying, insubordination, and handing out flaming swords.” Crowley smiled gently at this but otherwise remained motionless, not wanting to interrupt with so much as a tip of his head. “I thought it might get me into trouble for sloth. Weren’t you afraid to try it?”

“I’ve always figured I’m damned anyway,” Crowley shrugged. “No sense depriving myself. Try to do as I please.”

“Crowley you’re not-” Aziraphale scrunched his face into a shape that was half horror, half sorrow. It made Crowley want to smooth out every furrow in his friend’s forehead with the pads of his thumbs. “Is that how you think of yourself?”

“What, damned?” 

Aziraphale nodded. 

“Of course it is. It’s what I am. She cast me out, remember?”

“But you were just _ in _ heaven.”

“Wearing your face,” Crowley reminded.

“Over your own soul.” 

Crowley frowned.

There had been no discernible effect on him when he’d ascended. He’d felt no pain. Heard no choirs. Seen nothing blindingly beautiful or terrible. Heaven was just hell with housekeeping. Sterile halls. Icy angels. It was as far from the Divine as the bottom of the ninth circle. There was nothing of Aziraphale in it.

“Maybe She didn’t so much cast you _ out _ as... send you _ forth,_” Aziraphale offered, then made a small, soft hum. “I suppose She sent me too.”

“She sent-” Crowley wrinkled his nose, which raised his upper lip like a curtain, revealing the bright, narrow teeth that made Aziraphale wish he was small enough to kiss them all individually.

“Both of us to Eden,” Aziraphale finished.

“Which we left of our own accord,” Crowley breathed.

All four eyebrows hopped at that. 

They sat sipping champagne and munching their lunch until their plates and glasses were empty. Aziraphale filled them up again.

“And then we came here,” the angel said. “By a roundabout way. Cheers.”

Crowley clinked their cups together and they watched the stray clouds sail past until their drinks were gone again. Aziraphale set their plates near the edge of the blanket where a tiny bird, who’d been eyeing the crumbs, was waiting for him to do that very thing. 

“But haven’t you ever nodded off?” Crowley asked. “Even for a second?”

“Not that I know of. Seems like the sort of thing I’d notice. Finding myself in a heap on the floor... or face down, drooling in a book.”

Crowley supposed it was a bit of a miracle to have Aziraphale at his side on the lawn like this. Indulging. Taking a risk. Going for a picnic with a demon when he’d never even dabbled in napping.

“What’s it like?” Aziraphale asked.

“Peaceful. For the most part. Every now and again you get a bad dream, but it’s just a dream. Most of them are nice enough. Or harmlessly bizarre. Or bland. Sometimes you don’t remember anything and you wake up feeling fresh. You can try it now if you like. I’ll keep a lookout.”

“What do I do?”

Crowley demonstrated in time with his instructions. “Stretch out. Head on the pillow. Blanket over you, which sometimes helps with not feeling like you’re going to float away. And then relax your body, so it’s just the Earth holding you up. No muscles working. Nothing to pay attention to. Then close your eyes and let your mind go blank.”

“I don’t think I’m doing it right,” Aziraphale said, ten seconds later.

“It takes a few minutes, angel. Sometimes hours if you’re upset. Days, even. You’ll get there. Have to. You must be exhausted.”

“I have felt a bit… _ stretched,_” Aziraphale admitted. “I’ve been so nervous for so long.”

“About what? My driving? Discorporation paperwork?”

“Ruining everything for everyone forever. Failing every test I’ve ever been set. Missing the point over and over-”

“Shh, you’re all right. We’re still here, remember? Armageddon averted.”

“True… though I’m not sure we can claim much credit for it.”

“A for effort, though,” Crowley winked, and watched the angel try and fail to stop a smile. “Close your eyes again.” He waited until Aziraphale had done so. “Feel the sun on your face?”

“Yes, when the breeze moves the branches and it shines through the trees.”

“Focus on that one little thing. Nothing else. See if that helps.”

All Crowley could focus on was Aziraphale, which was much. There was the rising and falling of his breast and the way it shifted him where their shoulders were pressed together, shifting Crowley in turn. The scent, a blend of cotton, books, cologne, and champagne, that hovered about him. The way the warmth of his skin was caught by the blanket, pooling beneath it and enveloping them both. His cheerful face, smooth and pink, turned toward the sky with the trees gone red behind it. Not the scattering of roses amid their thorns, but a wall of maples the color of wine. Autumn again, urging him on, warning of winter like the shaggy coats of ponies. 

Crowley heard his friend’s breathing change, deepening and evening out. Seeming to come from the belly now, gusting through his nose in strong puffs. 

The sun was low and blue shadows were running long fingers over the hills when Aziraphale’s lashes finally fluttered. He opened his eyes, widened them, and gasped.

“_O__h,_ what’s happened to the time? It’s got so late.”

“You’ve been asleep for hours,” Crowley smiled. “Well done, you.”

“Really?” 

“Really.”

The angel was beaming now. Crowley wished he had something to give him as a prize. Instead, he felt he was the one being rewarded when Aziraphale rolled toward him and rested an arm on his breast. 

“Is it always so abrupt?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’s always quick. Seems a little longer if you remember what you were dreaming. Or sometimes you wake up feeling perfect, and then you know you’ve slept a long time even though it seems like you only closed your eyes a moment ago.”

Aziraphale hummed and Crowley turned his head until the tips of their noses touched.

“But you can always stretch out under a blanket and let yourself rest,” Crowley murmured. “Enjoy the comfort of sleep without, well, sleeping through it.” 

The glossy fans of Aziraphale’s lashes were slightly lowered, but Crowley could see through them well enough to tell that the angel’s eyes were crossed and he was looking at the narrow bridge of his nose.

“You’ve such a lovely face,” Aziraphale said, as a smile spread over his own features. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you. Fine as a bird’s.”

Aziraphale didn’t say which bird, in part because it wasn’t just one. 

When Crowley was displeased, he wore the exact expression of a robin fledgling, all frown and jutting chin, which often made it difficult for Aziraphale to keep from smiling at him. When he was focused, he had the look of a sparrowhawk, keen and glowering. But when he was surprised, which happened often in the angel’s company, he tended to resemble an owl, with gold eyes overtaking everything.

Aziraphale liked the rest of Crowley as well. His smooth, fluid motions kept the angel entranced, not wanting to miss a tip of his head or a swing of his hips. His soft hair, which he’d been wearing wild like a boy’s for a few years now, called so loudly to Aziraphale’s fingers it was often a struggle to hear anything else. Though he tried to disguise it with swagger, Crowley had the thin, tottering legs of something young and hunted--a fawn or a plover chick--and the narrow breast and shoulders of a stripling, which lent him an air of helpless innocence that made Aziraphale want to tuck him under a wing and ferry him through life like a swan would a cygnet. 

He was an in-between sort of being. Forever the shape of someone changing. His big eyes and narrow jaw gave the impression that he was still growing despite how scant and weathered the flesh spanning his bones had always been. He had looked fitter of late, however, relatively speaking--and to Aziraphale’s great relief. His skin had been parched and dusty at the flood. The creases around his eyes were so sharp in those days that Aziraphale had feared they might crack and bleed at any moment. All the water had only made it worse. Five hundred years after Golgotha, Crowley had added pallor to the inventory of his features, and not an ounce of weight. 

But Crowley was nothing if not resilient. The Renaissance had seemed to infect him, and century after century afterward he’d had more life in him. More sun in his skin and more spring in his step. A growing air of amusement. It made sense to the angel. More time meant more space, all taking Crowley further from his fall and from God’s cruelty. He’d been banished to a garden and was thriving in it like any green thing. 

Crowley’s face was currently soft and open. His lips were curling inward slightly, on their way to saying something, which made Aziraphale want to chase after them with his own.

“When Hals and Rubens came along, I thought time had flipped around and everything I knew was backwards. The way they painted flesh and faces,” Crowley gave a faint shake of his head, “it felt like they’d been the ones to come up with you. Or were you their muse, angel?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, shut it again, and pressed it to Crowley’s.

“What was that for?” Crowley whispered, without pulling back, so that each word moved his lips against Aziraphale’s.

“To thank you,” Aziraphale said, and did it again. “You’ve always been so kind to me.”

“Somebody ought to be,” Crowley said, and kissed the angel on the lips, the tip of the nose, and twice on each cheek. “If She’s not up to it-” Crowley’s face twisted and Aziraphale’s went wide and white as the ground began to shake beneath them. “Speak of the devil,” Crowley choked. “Oh, angel, I’m so sorry. It really was nice knowing you.”

“Likewise, my dear.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Right. This one’s _ my _ treat.”

Crowley felt his friend’s hand curl over the top of his head as Aziraphale pressed their brows together. Given their proximity, he expected shadows, but everything got brighter. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust. All around him, flaming wings retreated into blinding, empty white. Before him, he saw the backs of two wings spread tall and wide, pale as doves and soft as breath. On the other side of them, Crowley wasn’t sure. At first he thought it was the sword, as it was firm and thin. But then he saw it was too long, and Aziraphale seemed to have it by the blade, which ended not in a point but in a globe. And the thing wasn’t blazing but glowing yellow like the sun. Molten gold, rippling faintly in Aziraphale’s grip. 

Crowley thought _cane,_ _staff, glaive,_ and _spear_ before he finally remembered _sceptre_. 

Crowley knew the back of the angel’s head better than his own. Aziraphale’s mess of platinum curls was unmistakable. But he’d never sported a crown before. Not even in the garden. That top hat had been the closest he’d come. What Aziraphale was wearing now was like a hat without a top. A column of darkness that began an inch above his head and rose endlessly. It looked to contain not heaven, but _ the _ heavens, as if night had dawned above the angel, or the stars had been born of his thoughts.

“I will not be sorry for one second of this. Ever. Nor should I be.” 

Crowley registered the words, but not with his ears. There was no sound. No air to breathe. His heart had ceased to beat--ceased to _ be._ He went to look at his watch but found his wrist bare, and the rest of him with it. All too familiar. He remembered what he’d tried for six thousand years to forget. It was there when he squinted, hovering on the other side of Aziraphale. The hazy grey orb that She was. Wonderful and wretched. Motionless. A relic. Floating in a self-inflicted obsolescence, which She likely mistook for Her own innocence. Not, as it only now occurred to him, something Crowley truly missed. He flung himself forward and wrapped his arms around the angel, putting protective hands--probably uselessly--over his friend’s breast and throat. 

Aziraphale was still speaking and his sceptre was getting hotter and brighter. Droplets of gold were breaking free from its top and floating upward in the absence of gravity.

“A God who’d punish love is just a dressed up devil. He’s been a saint and you know it. Hurt a hair on his head and I’ll cast you out myself if it’s the last thing I do.”

With that, Aziraphale swung the sceptre like a hammer, straight through the heart of Her.

And life began again.

The Earth was still bouncing beneath them, harder now, and the air had filled with breathing. So much breathing, and from so many lungs, hot and fast against their skin. Beyond their feathery cocoon, Crowley sensed a host, bodied and able to battle.

There seemed nothing to be done. The two stared into each other’s eyes unblinking, silently praying in unison, “Let him be the last thing I see.” 

Then came the first nudge, warm, damp, and slightly dirty against the back of Aziraphale’s hand where it was still cradling Crowley’s skull. Then the moos and lowing started, loud and suspicious, but not overly skittish. Those tapered away into the quiet thuds of hooves hopping and trotting until Crowley and Aziraphale were entirely surrounded by a hundred Ayrshires who had come up over the hill to investigate the two trespassers in their pasture.

The angel spread his feathers like fingers and peeked out between them, then shed his wings and sat up in a rush.

“Oh my goodness, ladies, I beg your pardon. I thought you were someone else. Didn’t mean to startle you. Terribly rude of us to intrude. And I’ve probably been shouting at you, you poor dears, I’m so sorry. Here you are. Don’t be shy.”

Aziraphale took the two apples from the bottom of the basket and flicked his wrists. A ring of fruit appeared around the edge of the blanket and, after some investigative sniffing, the cows began munching the conciliatory gift. Then he dropped back against the pillow, let out a breath for a full minute, and took Crowley’s hand.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, ’m fine,” Crowley nodded, but he was palpably quaking.

“Sorry about all that,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head at himself. “I’ve been a bit jumpy lately. Life has been, well, _ strange._ And She does _ so _ push my buttons.” 

“It’s not a problem, angel.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale smiled, and raised Crowley’s hand to his lips to press a long kiss to it.

“Angel?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you just kill God?”

“No, dear,” Aziraphale sighed, “I only slammed the door in Her face.”

Crowley stared, which was what passed for normal between them, so Aziraphale took no notice.

His angel had apologized to the cows. 

But not to Her. 

He had more backbone in his sacrum than most people managed in their entire spines. 

_No,_ Crowley thought, _ this one wouldn’t need a flaming sword. He was always sharp and burning. _

After their apple snack, as many cows as were able made pillows of their visitors and they all lay down to doze and sunbathe. There should have been flies, but there were none, and Crowley wondered where Aziraphale had sent them. Off to Beelzebub, he hoped, or, _ better,_ to Gabriel. 

“Angel?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale was distracted, focused on stroking the neck of the cow who seemed to have set her head on his breast for that purpose.

“You outrank Gabriel, don’t you?”

“I… well, _ technically,_ yes, celestially speaking,” Aziraphale admitted, with a little jump of his eyebrows, as if it had only just occurred to him, “I suppose the Cherubim outrank all but God and the Seraphim. I’ve been working as a Principality for ages, though. More practical. Come to think of it, almost everyone outranks archangels, apart from guardians, who should be the highest order, but got shoved in at the end like an afterthought--She really does drive me mad sometimes. And the nomenclature is impenetrable.” Aziraphale shook his head and frowned and Crowley wanted to lick away the number eleven that had formed between his eyebrows. “So, yes, but…”

“But what?”

“Well, there shouldn’t really _ be _ ranks, should there? And I’ve no ambition in Gabriel’s,” Aziraphale waved his hand vaguely, “bureaucracy. Giving orders is almost as bad as taking them.”

Crowley cackled at that and Aziraphale grinned and gave his palm a squeeze. 

The Cherubim’s reputation had been truncated along with their imagined form, whittling them down from God’s full-grown royal guard to plump, babyish putti who hovered about young, usually-nude women in the lazy minds of men. It was all too easy to forget that Aziraphale had been made for murder. The first reminder Crowley had had of it in six thousand years had come when the angel was the only one willing to kill Adam if it meant saving the rest of the world. An impossible decision. The stuff of nightmares. And, to Aziraphale, nothing new. Sent to guard the garden with a flaming sword, he’d gone against the one direct order God had given him, trusted in his own judgment, armed the alleged enemy, and marched on through a world he knew was broken with one eye forever gazing back over his shoulder, waiting for Her wrath.

They both flinched when a bell rang and all the cows woke at once and began heaving themselves to their feet. The ground shook again as the herd trotted down the hill toward what their guests correctly assumed was their dinner.

“Anything on tonight, angel?”

“Not really. I suppose books are the only thing on the agenda for the foreseeable future, and they’ll keep. You?”

“Was wondering if you might be game for some stargazing?”

“Oh, that would be very welcome. They’re the thing I miss most living in London.”

“They were such a,” Crowley narrowed his eyes, “_s__hocking _ silver lining during the blackouts. It had been centuries since I’d seen so many stars over the city. Felt like going back in time.”

“Yes, you could see the whole Milky Way on clear nights,” Aziraphale remembered. “All that beauty above and they still saw fit to drop bombs on each other.”

“And worse. They got even nastier when there were no lights on at night to let their neighbours see their faces.” 

“Yes, they did.”

“Well, there’s always Alpha Centauri,” Crowley sighed. “Meanwhile, the clouds aren’t too bad at the moment. Just enough of them around to make the sunset interesting. The Orionids aren’t quite peaking, but they’re well underway. We should catch a few. _ Oh,_ and before the light’s gone, I’ve got one little thing left up my sleeve."

Crowley hurried off to the car and came back holding a small white box tied with candy stripe string.

“Dessert,” he said, offering it to the angel.

The face Aziraphale made on opening it would have led nonexistent onlookers to believe he’d just received a ten carat marriage proposal. 

“Oh, it’s almost too pretty to eat,” Aziraphale sighed. His eyes went wide above rosy cheeks that were raised in a smile. 

The sight of him put an idiotic grin on Crowley’s face, which, of his myriad expressions, was by far the angel’s favorite.

They managed not to make too big a mess of it, though the thing was simultaneously sticky, fluid, and explosive. The only thing close to a spill was the single drop of honey on the angel’s lower lip, which Crowley caught with his finger and popped into his own mouth as soon as he’d spotted it.

“That was delectable,” Aziraphale sighed. “Thank you.”

Crowley tried to say “you’re welcome,” but he could feel his skin flushing from Aziraphale’s tone and he got flustered. All the vowels stuck in his throat and only a handful of the consonants made it out of his mouth.

Aziraphale saw the way his friend’s arms were wrapped around his middle and how drawn his hands had become with the sun getting low and the air cooling off.

“Here, you’re freezing,” Aziraphale said, shimmying out of his jacket and holding it forth. “Come on,” he shook it until Crowley cooperated, slipping it on and buttoning it up. “Now get in the center here,” the angel said, patting the place beside him, right at his hip, which was exactly where Crowley wanted to go--and readily did. 

With a flick of his fingers, Aziraphale got all the aftermath of the cows off the blankets, then drew up the edges of the one they were lying on to make a toasty cocoon.

“Better?”

“Much,” Crowley sighed, wiggling further under the blankets. 

“Hang on. Lift your head,” Aziraphale said, then slid his arm under Crowley’s neck and curled his hand over his hair. “There. Makeshift hat and scarf,” the angel said. Crowley smiled wider and kept staring.

Aziraphale brushed their noses together and got a small blink of thanks. Kissed Crowley’s forehead and felt him lean into it. Kissed him there again, longer, then gave it up as not enough.

“I owe you an apology,” Aziraphale said. Crowley made a fond scoffing sound and shook his head as if the thought was absurd. “A thousand of them,” the angel amended.

“What are you on about?”

“For every ‘no.’ Every time I said there was any wall between us or tried to make you less when you were always more.”

“Shhh. Don’t be ridiculous. I know what you were up against. Hell is run by halfwits. Heaven is the tenth bloody circle. They-” Crowley pressed his lips together tight. He didn’t want his friend to know it. No trial. No tears. Gabriel’s eagerness for Aziraphale’s death gave the impression he’d been craving it for ages. “Don’t trust the other angels. Ever. Especially Gabriel. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Aziraphale agreed. “Haven’t for ages. All rotten apples. Still, they don’t excuse me. I was a coward. For my part, I deserve to be doubted, but for yours... Crowley I _ do _ love you. Always have done. I hope you know it.”

“Know it?” Crowley gaped at him. He moved his mouth to speak, went still, shook himself, and repeated that cycle two more times. “A few hours ago--literally, hours--you crashed _ the first fucking sphere,_ scattered my old outfit like paper, and gave the actual Almighty a dressing-down on my behalf. It was practically a spanking. _ Know it?_ You absolute berk.” Crowley elbowed him weakly, which was the hardest he could manage to do while dissolving into tears. 

Oh the bright side, Crowley found that his meltdown meant Aziraphale gathered him up in his arms and tucked his head under his chin. He also got a lovely back rub, which was especially welcome after a chilly day spent on hard ground. There was no shushing, rushing, or countering. No you’re-all-right-ing. Just long, warm strokes up and down his spine. All the air he breathed was filtered through the angel’s clothes, whose familiar scents spoke, just as they had six thousand years ago, of safety, comfort, and quiet, stubborn kindness.

With no cause to brace it, Crowley let the dam burst. He went to pieces over everything he’d ever held back about. The fall, the flood, the bookshop fire, and every other nightmare She’d tucked in between. The children’s toys and tiny limbs that were reliably scattered in the rubble left behind by bombs. The unrelenting misogyny. The malnutrition, epidemics, and starvation. The mass graves, murders, executions, and extinctions. The 2,199,900 nights he’d spent alone remembering them all.

When his breaths had finally stopped hitching and he was on the edge of sleep, he flinched and filled with adrenaline he didn’t need: he’d lost track of the sky.

“Oh, the sunset. I’m sorry, angel, I forg-”

“There’s another one in the works tomorrow, dear,” Aziraphale soothed, then kissed him on the cheek and set the blankets to rights about them. 

They were both warm and limp and gently breathing when they saw their first falling star, which sent soft, simultaneous _ Oh_s, puffing from their lips.

“I’d always wondered why we didn’t meet before," Aziraphale murmured. "You’re out of my sphere. Seraph.”

“_Ex,_” Crowley corrected. “The highest order of arse-kissers. After a thousand rounds of ‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of Her glory!’ I said ‘Couldn’t we be doing something useful?’ She sent me off to finish the stars. She’d done one yellow dwarf and called it a day. Said it all needed to look fourteen billion years old and She couldn’t be bothered to do the maths it was going to take to arrange it. Took all the credit Herself, of course. Classic management,” Crowley grumbled. “I had so many planets out there with life bubbling along in their seas. My babies. She smashed them all. Said She was the only Creator. I said, ‘That’s obviously bollocks as I’ve just done it,’ and called Her a killer. The first lead balloon. Got me sent down hard and fast. I don’t miss the dictatorship though,” Crowley sighed. “Mostly I just miss,” he curled his fingers in the air, “making things.” 

If Crowley had known Aziraphale when he’d made the stars, he would have drawn the angel’s portrait in them up above the Earth. The shower they were watching now would be the Aziraphaleids. Humans would never know to call it that, but Crowley would. 

He’d intended to stay up all night kissing his angel, but he was spent after his catharsis and rolled over to drool and snore into Aziraphale’s armpit less than an hour into their stargazing. He woke in the Bentley, wrapped in blankets and slumped against Aziraphale’s shoulder, more than halfway home. Debussy’s Arabesques were fluttering softly from the speakers and the heat from the engine had the air inside the cabin as warm as skin. He promptly passed out again. Aziraphale drove like there was an egg between his foot and the pedals, and that imaginary egg remained intact all the way to Crowley’s flat.


	3. Chapter 3

It was nearly noon when Crowley woke again. He was curled on his side in bed, snug under the covers in his black silk pajamas. There was warmth all the way up his back, one arm under his neck, another wrapped around his waist, and breath gusting gently against his nape.

He had only vague memories of getting there. No recollection of leaving the car or climbing the stairs. Nor of drawing the blinds and turning down the bed. He only remembered saying “Stay, I’ll go slowly” over and over to an increasingly worried angel. Saying it even after they were curled together in bed. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Aziraphale murmured. His voice was low and thick with sleep and the sound had Crowley pressing backwards into the angel’s front without a first thought, let alone a second one. The arm around his waist pulled him in tighter and he felt kisses blooming above the bones in his neck. When those faded back into breathing, he shuffled around until their foreheads were butted together and won himself a kiss on the mouth for his trouble. 

Beneath the angel’s chin, he found the upper button of a set of pale tartan pajamas undone. Whether it had been left that way or had come open in the night, Crowley wasn’t sure, but the sight was welcome either way. He dipped the tip of his fourth finger into the hollow at the base of Aziraphale’s throat and felt the skin tapping against him in time with the angel’s heartbeat. Crowley replaced his finger with his lips, stretching them forward in an exaggerated pucker to reach into the hollow and leave a kiss. He dropped his head back on the pillow with a sigh and a smile.

Aziraphale saw the flattened hair on the left side of Crowley's head. The dried sleep and pillow creases on his cheek. The puffy eyelids and swollen lips. Fragile and human. The thought of not seeing his friend’s tired, unguarded face again tomorrow morning sent a shudder rippling through the angel’s core.

“Sorry I fell apart last night,” Crowley said, then gaped at the dry, rusty croak that had come from his throat.

“Three nights ago,” Aziraphale corrected softly. “Nothing to be sorry about. I kept hoping you’d wake sooner so I could get you to drink some water. Shall I fetch you a glass now?”

“I’ll come with you.”

After he’d watered Crowley, Aziraphale watered Crowley’s plants, asking them to say “when” as he poured, which, to Crowley’s amazement, they did.

  


On the floor at the front door, just beneath the mail slot, Crowley found a thick off-white envelope. Not the wide sort stuffed with adverts and credit card applications. It was one of the taller, narrower ones that were shaped like thank you notes and wedding invitations.

The wax seal split with a pleasant crack around the sturdy cotton paper. Within, Crowley found a folded sheet with a golden bee at its top and Aziraphale’s handwriting below. No, handwriting wasn’t the word for it. It was script. Calligraphy. 

_ My Dear Crowley, _

_That red last night was a wonderful pick. Bach followed it beautifully. Thank you. _

_I’ve a 2007 Chateau d’Yquem Sauternes Blend that’s said to be peaking. Thought we might open it this evening if you’re free. _

_Yours,_

_ Aziraphale _

When Crowley had stopped shaking and there was no longer any danger of a teardrop falling and warping the paper, he sniffed the sheet and found the faintest breath of cologne where the angel’s wrist had brushed the lower corner of the page. 

“Is this still on the table?” Crowley asked, rounding the corner to the kitchen and waving the message in the air.

“Yes, I was thinking we could head over that way after dinner. The weather’s meant to clear up mid afternoon. Meanwhile, I think some more rest wouldn’t go amiss. And more water as well,” Aziraphale said, handing Crowley another glass and watching it spill from the corners of his mouth as he gulped it down. 

“Nap?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shook his head no. “Don’t want to sleep through all my time with you.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s face fell and seemed, to Crowley, to grow older. “I didn’t know you were leaving London.”

“I’m not, but you’ll...” Crowley waved his hand in a circle, rolling it away.

“My dear, I’m not going anywhere. Unless you wish it, of cour-”

“I don’t.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale smiled. His face perked up and his shoulders relaxed. “Then we do have time. Though, after six thousand years… it _ does _ begin to seem that eternity might not be enough. Greedy, I suppose. She’ll get me for gluttony one of these days.” 

Crowley couldn’t gape for long. The angel’s eyes were lowered and his smile was small and tight. Apologetic. Expecting the worst. The sort he should never wear, least of all now.

“The hell She will,” Crowley said, and curled his finger under Aziraphale’s chin, stroking the soft curve hidden below it before tipping it up.

They weren’t standing in the doorway, dressed to the nines and saying a reluctant goodnight. Were not leaning across the front seat of the car or scrambling out of clothes on their way to a bedroom. They had, true to form, done it backwards. Slept three nights together like a pair of logs and then gone to the kitchen to kiss in their pajamas.

The first soft press encouraged another. Then a peck to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. Then a nip on the left side of Aziraphale’s neck, followed by a lick into his suprasternal notch. 

They nudged and nibbled their way past each other’s lips and, within five minutes, Crowley had one arm hooked over the angel’s head, the other around his neck, and both legs belting Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale had his hands under Crowley’s bum to hold him up, which was delicious, but so was the rest of Crowley, which would be out of reach for Aziraphale’s fingers as long as gravity remained in play.

Getting his lips free of Crowley’s mouth took over a minute. Aziraphale only made headway when he attempted speech.

“Boouuh,” the angel said, and Crowley pulled back. 

“You don’t like it?” Crowley asked, as the centers of his eyebrows went for his hairline in a portrait of heartbreak.

“I do like it. I was trying to say _ bed._”

“Bed?”

“Yes.”

“Tired, angel?” Crowley asked, looking wounded on Aziraphale’s behalf now, frowning around a pout and stroking Aziraphale’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Need more rest?”

“Thank you, no,” Aziraphale said, and kissed him to get him back on track.

“Oh, _ bed._ _Yesssss,_” Crowley hissed, nodding frantically against Aziraphale’s neck and squeezing him more tightly with his legs, but not lowering said legs to the floor.

“You’ve a grip like a spider monkey,” Aziraphale tsked, as he carried Crowley down the hall. “I don’t know how that horse ever managed to throw you off.”

“Well I didn’t _ want _ to be on the horse. _ You,_ on the other hand.” 

Aziraphale snorted, then turned so that the bed was behind him and hopped backwards to land in its middle. “Well, here you are then,” the angel said, and dropped his head to the mattress.

“Excellent,” Crowley grinned, and set to work on the buttons down going Aziraphale’s front.

“Oh, you don’t have to look at all that if you don’t want to.”

“I do,” Crowley said, then paused. His smile faded and he narrowed his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I want to? Are you wounded under here, angel? I swear to-” Crowley had the rest of the buttons open in three seconds flat and pulled the shirt wide. Not a scratch. He bent with a happy sigh and pressed a dozen kisses to Aziraphale’s belly. “Oh, thank goodness. What did you think I was going to find?”

“I’m told I have a gut that ought to be lost.”

Crowley raised one eyebrow. He didn’t look amused. “By whom?”

“Gabriel.”

Crowley took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. “I don’t have a word rotten enough for him, and if I did, I wouldn’t want it on my tongue, but if I ever get my hands on that git’s throat, it’s curtains. Forget him, angel. He’s garbage. G-U-T, G-O-D, and G-A-B… _ riel._ Three-letter-words we don’t use in this house.”

Crowley shuffled down and folded himself in half so that his head was above the angel’s navel and his arms were covering Aziraphale’s flanks, hoarding the flesh and sheltering it.

“I don’t think anyone’s planning to come in here and snatch my belly away from you, dear,” Aziraphale teased, stroking Crowley’s hair and feeling him hum against his skin.

“They’d better not be. Wouldn’t want you to look like Famine’s had his way with you.” Crowley shuddered at the thought. “I like you just as you are. Sturdy, but not... _ harsh,_”

“I believe that’s called _ soft,_” Aziraphale said.

“Yes, _ soft,_” Crowley sighed, nodding. “Perfect.”

  
  


They had always pictured themselves together for the first time in the dark. A lamp going on the nightstand was as far as their imaginations had ventured into the light. Now the sun was streaming through the window, slowly making its way toward them, gliding silently across the floor. Its glow warmed the air and let them see every pore and freckle without leaving them nervous in the least. After six thousand years, nothing to hide or fear. Only relief at being found. 

They’d seen enough to know that all the shuffling, scrambling, and fumbling they were doing was funny--and that it was only improved by laughter. When Crowley’s legs found their way around Aziraphale’s waist again, they both grinned and giggled, making a mess of their kisses and not minding. The angel’s right arm was resting under Crowley’s neck, but his left was free and he managed to get his hand back under Crowley’s bum, winning him another fit of giggling that ended in a pleased sigh. 

The angel’s name had always been ambrosia. Crowley couldn’t keep it out of his mouth in even the calmest of circumstances. “Aziraphale” went sailing past his teeth oftener and fonder than anything else. The Bentley got warm, gruff sentiment and gratitude, but the angel got the whole gamut, from hushed reverence to shattered screaming that left Crowley’s throat raw. “Angel” had at first looked--if not felt--like distance, but life had caught up around it and exposed it as the endearment Crowley had been trying to conceal. Now both of the names were sobbing out of him, high and breathless, faster and more helpless with every syllable. He felt like a cello: neck taut and long, strings tight beneath bow and fingers, body humming below. A lost suite by Bach.

When the last note had stopped buzzing through his nerves, there was only the angel, kissing the tip of his nose and brushing back the hair that clung to his brow, smiling down at him as he drifted off to sleep mumbling, “Broken up like the bread at the Supper,” replying, “Yes, and we’re the pieces.”

  
  
  
  


It was still light out when they rose, so they walked to the restaurant, wanting to take in what remained of the day and hoping to wake themselves up. The last of the sunlight caught in the drops of rain that still clung to the trees, setting the leaves and branches sparkling like they were strung with fairy lights. The smile it put on Aziraphale’s face had Crowley’s eyes welling over, which his glasses were no use at hiding, but the angel was good enough not to mention it.

Dinner was a feast.

They stopped for coffee on their way home afterward in the hope that it would keep the meal from making them too drowsy.

Once they were back in the bookshop, they promptly sabotaged the caffeine by putting Satie’s _ Gnossiennes _ on the gramophone, getting into the wine, and settling on the sofa.

“Mango,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale nodded, narrowed his eyes, and rolled another mouthful of Sauternes over his tongue.

“Kettle corn, I think?”

“Yes,” Crowley hissed. “It was driving me mad trying to put my finger on it. And wood smoke, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I was thinking that too. It’s making me want Scotch.”

“Hold that thought. I’ve loads of it back at my place, all getting better by the decade. The weather is finally right for it.”

“It is,” Aziraphale agreed. “Honey. And almonds.”

“Toasted ones,” Crowley nodded. “And citrus--both rind and blossoms. Grapefruit for the former, but I can never tell with flowers.”

“Lime.”

“Mm.”

When the bottle was empty and their palates were sated, Crowley stretched out with his feet up on the armrest and his head in Aziraphale’s lap.

“Are you really not fond of bebop?” Crowley asked.

“It’s not for me,” Aziraphale lamented, with a sad shake of his head.

“No Charlie Parker then?”

“He’s always overwhelming. Whirling. I can never catch my breath in his music. Makes me dizzy. It’s not that I dislike it, I think it’s brilliant. Genius, even. I just wasn’t made for it.” 

“What were you made for, angel?”

“Oh, I could go on all day.”

“Go on then.”

“Satie’s Gymnopédies--and Gnossiennes, obviously. They’re so soothing. There’s so much space in them where I can think. It lets me remember them better.”

“Keep going.”

“Bach,” Aziraphale sighed. “The cello suites, as you know. Sam Cooke.”

“Ah, that bloke had a voice,” Crowley groaned.

“A purr.”

“Puts the Bentley to shame. Delicious. Like yours.”

“Mine?” Aziraphale asked. “I don’t sing.”

“You don’t have to. Your voice can’t help itself.”

“What are you on about?”

“Tell us a story, angel,” Crowley said, setting Aziraphale’s left hand in his hair and his right on his stomach and shaking them lightly to instruct them to move, which they did.

“I should have known you had an angle,” Aziraphale sighed, biting back a smile and rolling his eyes, then scanning the bookshelves until he lit on something fitting that he could repeat from memory. 

“‘If music be the food of love-’”

“Ooooo, this one’s my favorite,” Crowley moaned, throwing his head back and smiling with all his teeth.

“Yes, I seem to recall you went to every performance.”

“And how would you know about that? I’ve never mentioned it.”

“I-” Aziraphale went so red his eyes watered. “I was keeping you under heavy surveillance... in _ those _ days.” 

“_Really._”

“Well, I _ had _ to,” the angel pouted. “You were my wily adversary, after all.”

“You’re a shit liar.”

“And don’t I know it.” 

Crowley grinned and kissed Aziraphale’s belly. “Play on, angel.”


End file.
